Juno's Identity
by radishface
Summary: chapter two up. Gren angsts his way through life in which Vicious plays a big part. =_= Written in the usual style-- rambly-ish and weird. OOCness is present among all the characters. Whee~!
1. Default Chapter

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Juno's Identity 

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Disclaimers: Cowboy Bebop belongs to Sunrise and Bandai. 

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Warnings/Rants: This is a fanfic that is, in many ways, similar to "A Vagabond's Smile." =_= Can one plagarize from oneself? Consider it a theme I like to explore with different characters. The names of the chapters... well, I'll let you figure that out. Anyway, I'm toying with the Bebop timeline a LOT here... did Vicious go to Titan _before _or _after _Spike and Julia left him? o_O So yeah. And typical for ranting, type-happy men, this is very weird. Like stream-of-consciousness sometimes. "Surreal" is a polite way of stating what it's like, I guess. 

This is a Gren/Vicious fanfic. ^_^ And perhaps I will explore further into their relationship than I have done before. ::cough cough wheeze hack:: Anyway. That's just a warning. 

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Radishface 

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[ Elara ] 

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* * * 

We were walking down the cold streets, our faces buried in our coats, our hands in our pockets, even though we both wore gloves. It was exceptionally chilly that day, even more cold than usual, and the perpetually cloudy skies, the dirt-streaked snow, the men in gas masks, warming themselves over box-fires in the streets, had done nothing to take the air of gloom that surrounded the city. Her blue eyes scanned the sidewalks, as if looking for a safe place to step, and my scarf fluttered slightly in the wind as I clutched my saxophone case in my hands, and I knew they were grey hands, and I would have to turn the radiator on when we got back to my apartment. 

I remember the glitter of mischief I used to hold in my eyes, walking along dusty grounds with another person, and I'd say something stupid, do something embarrassing, just to try and tease, torment, see the other person blush. But drawing a reaction from him was impossible. He'd never listen to me, anyway. He'd always be off in his own world. Some world I couldn't get into. 

When I was young, I remember a gypsy girl who was walking along the streets, selling goods like a peddler would, and my mother would draw me into her arms, as we sat there on our house steps, as if she was shielding me from this crazy gypsy who wandered the streets with no purpose. My mother would never go inside the house, to hide, though, as I had expected her to. She looked at the gypsy with curiousity and caution in her eyes, and observed the way she moved through the streets, her wailing voice crying out, her emaciated body trembling as she took each step, her wrists dripping with bangles and her thick, volumous hair tied back with a green bandanna. I remember the gypsy girl once came up to our front steps, and I was merely a child, and my mother clutched onto me even tighter, not letting me go, as if this gypsy would spirit me away. I knew my eyes were wide with an inquiring look, and I remember I had reached out my small hand to touch hers. My mother quickly took my hand away, but the gypsy girl had reached out and handed me something, a small red ribbon, of hers, a soft light in her absent eyes and a smile hovering about her but never materializing. 

That gypsy girl never saw _me,_ I realized later. But her eyes spoke volumes, those wandering eyes. I forget what color they were. But they had said to me, _maybe we shall meet._

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Shall meet, as in meet for the first time. 

My mother had thrown away the ribbon, angry with me as she washed my hands where the girl had touched them. "She's a filthy child." My mother said. "Why did she have to get her filth on you? Now you're going to become an ugly, ugly, child, I won't be able to bear it." She had said this with a sob in her voice, my hands lathered with soap, she was scrubbing them so hard the skin was being rubbed raw, I could feel the pain, the gentle pain, as the water poured down my hands.

"It hurts." I had said, the sentence barely a whisper as my mother continued to cry, washing my charred hands. 

Perhaps my mother had never done such a thing. Perhaps it was only me, me, who had feared such a thing would happen because of the touch from the gypsy girl. Perhaps I was afraid she was still holding onto the other end of the ribbon, that she would tie it somewhere and I would forever be attached to that thing, not knowing what I was attached to until the day I walked the length of the ribbon-- until that time came.

She took of her shoes, set them by the door, slipped her jacket off, and hung that on the racket, and walked into the kitchen, perhaps to boil something. I walked over to the radiator, and pressed the switch. There came a humming sound, magnified one hundred times to me because I heard nothing else. I set my scarf and my own coat on the couch, my saxophone case on the floor, and picked up the two glasses that were on the coffee table, the ones we had drank from last night but didn't bother to put away. In truth, _I _couldn't bother to wash them. She slept in my bed, my bedroom, and I slept out here, on the couch. I liked it, actually. In the middle of the night, I could play the piano, softly, of course. I could make up something that came to me on the spur of the moment. I sensed that she didn't mind. I don't know if she ever slept at all, behind my closed doors. Perhaps she kept her eyes wide awake all night, that was why she was so tired during the day. She wasn't physically tired, no, never. She always held herself tall, walked with a straight back, eyes looking straight ahead. But she was tired. Exhausted. 

The kitchen was a tiny space, and we bumped shoulders as she watched the stove, and I washed the cups. The water ran over my hands, over the invisible cuts I had received from the gypsy ribbon. The pain wasn't great, it wasn't light. The water glazed over my hands, and I shuddered involuntairily, the sensation sending shivers up my spine. I was cold, the water was warm, the contrasting temperatures eventually evened out. By some chance, I wish that it was the same for everything. 

The pictures hung on the wall, nailed there permanently, temporarily, by pins and tacks and whatever I could find, as long as it kept them up there. They would always be there, they would never leave me, like that wandering gypsy girl. Their stories were always easy to decipher, unlike the eyes of that gypsy. I knew what each of them meant, I understood them. And in a strange way, they understood me. The pictures said what I wanted them to say. It wasn't as if I envisioned them what they were. They envisioned themselves. And one day, they would have some meaning, another day, another. They laughed to each other, each contained in their own, separated worlds. And these were what my pictures were to me-- they were everything I had captured, like gauze-winged butterflies caught in a net. And these memories were just as fragile to me. 

"Here." 

I realized I was sitting back on the couch now, my eyes never strayed from the pictures. A cup of steaming something-- tea, perhaps, was directly in my vision. I looked up, and Julia looked back down, an amused expression on her face. 

"Thank you." I accepted the cup, let it warm my hands. 

We sat in silence for a few moments, letting the warm heat of the radiator permeate the room. I could just barely hear her sipping the liquid out of her cup, and I saw her hands were clutched tightly around it, as if it were the last thing in the world that gave warmth.

"You're going to burn yourself." I found myself saying. 

"It's okay." She said. "I'm used to it."

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Used to scorching your hands? I thought. _How interesting. Same with me, maybe differently._

I've burnt every part of me countless times, already.

I could feel my face turn red, not just because of the heat in the room. And I recall--

"Gren..." She said, and I snap out of my reverie, glad for the interruption.

"Yes?" I turned towards her, affecting an overly-concerned face. She laughed slightly.

"Are you going to be playing tonight?" 

"Well, I have to stay at the bar until one." I murmur. "I don't think you'd want to hang around that long. I have to be back there by seven." 

"I'll take a walk." She replied, putting the cup down on the coffee table and looked thoughtful for a minute. "And don't worry about me--" She said, seeing my raised eyebrows. "I've got a gun handy just in case." 

"In case you need ammunition, there's always that store right around the corner..." I suggested, not knowing what else to say. I couldn't have told her to stay in the house. She wasn't a domesticated animal or anything of the sort. But she reminded me of a white Persian cat-- those purebred ones you couldn't see here on Callisto-- clean and wary and seemingly house-kept. There was more than what met the eye, though. 

"Do you have anywhere in mind?" I found myself asking, my cup almost empty. "For dinner, that is."

"No..." She said, pausing. "I don't really have much of an appetite." Her tone was apologetic. "I'm sorry."

"No, _I'm _sorry." I chuckled, swirling the clear liquid around in my cup. "Callisto doesn't have much of a selection, unlike Mars, where you're probably used to all sorts of--" I caught myself before I could say anymore, the very thought of me, rambling like a country bumpkin. "Excuse me."

"It's fine." She said, standing up, taking her cup to the sink. I sat there clutching mine, and I knew she was waiting for me to finish my drink, so she could wash it. But I didn't want her to wash it. I had always been the one to scrape the dishes, back when I lived as a child with my mother, and ever since I had arrived here-- it was a habit. I liked the sensation of water running over my hands, my body, a semblance of what it could feel like to cleanse myself, inside and out. I don't think I could ever get enough of that-- the water streaming over me, stripping the dirt away where white, marble hands had touched and left there-- 

"Julia." I said, finding that my breath had quickened, and I wanted to and I was unwilling to stop it. "Julia. I'll do that. Let me do that."

"You don't have to be so polite." She glanced at me, perhaps knowing what I was thinking, those blue eyes of hers penetrating into my thoughts. I couldn't bear to have her there. I wanted her out.

She was the woman that had separated--

"No, really." I stood up, an easy smile coming to my face. "You're the guest." I was aware my voice was tight and edged with steel, even though I kept a smiling demeanor. She placed the cup at the edge of the sink, it balanced there, ready to fall into the basin. I willed it to fall, to crash, to break. And then I looked back up, and she stared at me, a silent question, a challenge. Maybe it was all in my imagination. She knew everything. Why would she want to challenge, inquire, about what anything was? 

"We leave in an hour." She said, breaking the tension, pointing to the clock that hung up on my wall, the opposite wall of the pictures. 

"All right," I said, turning the faucet on, adjusting the hot and cold water taps. 

I heard her walking into my room, her feet making no noise, but I could still hear her. She stopped in front of my picture wall, and inside, I wanted to scream at her, to tell her to get away from them, they were _mine._ But yet, she couldn't understand them. So I had nothing to fear. Nobody could take that away from me.

The water slid over my hands, hot and cold and yet not. It had no real form, yet I could not mold it into the shape I wanted it to be. If I could sculpt the water, I would shape it into my most precious memory, my most precious feeling, emotion. Yet the water would be invisible to everybody I wanted it to be. And if that one person came along, why then, the sculpture would be there, transparent, quivering, and they would only have to touch it to send it reeling, to send it screaming to the ends of the world, crying, crying more water, and then that sculpture would be changed. With only such a small contact. 

I could never sculpt ice. It was too cold, too harsh, I could not change it-- and it wouldn't change for me. My fingers are already too cold. If I touched the ice, nothing would happen.

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	2. Elarian Overture

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Juno's Identity 

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Disclaimers: Cowboy Bebop belongs to Sunrise and Bandai. 

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Warnings/Rants: This is an fanfic experiment. =_= It's very strange. The views jump from doctor's report to prisoner interview to 'present day' Callisto and then to flashback-Titan-War. =_= I can't write straight (lol, what a pun). And yes, this is a Vicious/Gren fic…

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Radishface 

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[ Subject: Grencias Mars Elijah Guo Eckener

Doctor: Wessyn, A. Jericho, M.D. 

Summarization File: Metis 1 ]

Subject was arrested yesterday morning at the White Base camp along with five others suspected to be spies for the EUROPA Alliance. They were stripped of their belongings. Belongings consisted of METIS Alliance fatigues, photographs, saxophone case ( kept in METIS storage ), food items, and a music box. Photographs hold no information-- believed to be entirely personal. Scan of the music box has revealed nothing. Subject is set in cell block 12C, RD division. Subject is incoherent. The interrogation has been postponed for a week until in a suitable condition. 

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* * * 

"Who are you?"

"I'm Gren. Grencias Mars Elijah Guo Eckener."

"Where did you come from?"

"Saturn. I lived on one of the moons there. Neired. The establishment I lived on was built in 2042."

"What did you do before you fought in the war?"

"I played the saxophone. In a band. With a couple of friends from high school. The band split up though, after our lead married. Eventually, the rest followed his example. I wandered around quite a bit. Never really had a stable job. I heard about the war and I enlisted."

"How did you wind up becoming a spy?"

"I was accused. It wasn't me."

"Why do you think you are you here?"

"Because somebody wanted to get rid of me."

"Who?"

"A friend of mine. Back in the war."

"Where was he when you were arrested?"

"I don't know. He wasn't there when they came in. I think he was out in the front lines at the time."

"What did you do to make him frame you?"

"I honestly didn't do anything." 

"How do you know it was him?"

"I didn't know anybody else. Then again, everybody knew me. So it could have been anybody. I wasn't very well liked in the camp." 

"Why?" 

"I don't know. I never did anything to them, either. These things just happen."

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* * * 

The ground rose up to meet him. 

Words flew past him like birds, like hail, falling at a tremendous speed, and he couldn't catch any of the words that were being said as he was picked up by the collar-- where anybody could reach, and thrown back down again, the hard soles of those boots connecting with him, painting his body with spots of blue and black. The pain blossomed instantly, they needed no rain to make them flower, and his nerves were wracked with the sensation of being hit over, and over, and over again. He felt somebody pull his hair, tilting his head back, somebody smash their fist into his face, and then he was dropped again, reduced to being a rag doll, kicked around on the ground. The dust filled his mouth and biting his lip, he refused to cry out, refused to acknowledge that they were beating him, laughing at him. He tried to turn the pain from being scarlet to a different color-- and he could see, behind his shut eyes, the silver, slipping through his palms like sand did on the shore, and he filtered it through his fingers, trying to pick out the best grains, even though he knew that was impossible. 

They were tearing into him, ripping his skin, exposing the self that he didn't even know-- that he couldn't know. He ran, in his mind, the silver pain washing away revealing a darker red than there had been before, trying to gather himself in, trying not to fall and spill himself, but they ran after him, gnashing at his skin, tearing open new wounds. And they would never leave him dead-- they would never give him that satisfaction. They'd leave him lying there, sometimes face up, other times face down. He'd breathe the dust they'd left, remember that they had almost killed him, so many countless times, and he'd stand up, and try to walk, back to his tent, and fall asleep, knowing that this was only today, that tomorrow, they'd find him again, they'd do that to him again, and it would be the same. 

He could feel the blows weaken-- no, not weaken-- merely grow less-- and then there was more laughter, as they faded away, they left him to be. His eyes were still shut tightly, refusing to open. He curled up in a fetal position, almost trying to break into himself, trying to disappear into himself. Colored dots danced before his vision and finally, he wearily opened his eyes, to the slight glow of the camp far away, to the ground. Dust touched his bleeding lips, the dirt was caked in his hair. Struggling, he pulled himself up, hands shaking, not because of the cold, but because of the ache. And he half-crawled, half-walked, carrying himself, to a distance, where they couldn't get him. In his mind, he was back in the silver. His cracked lips formed a grotesque smile, lopsided, and he basked in the joy that they could never get him, in this place. In this grey.

The silver was losing shine, the pain was blossoming red again. He felt his sight swim before his eyes, and he could make out a cliff, one that stretched to where eternity lay, where the jagged peaks of rocks were below, and he thought to himself, crying out, maybe I can jump off. Maybe I can stop it. 

But he felt himself fall before he could do so, felt his grip on himself crumbling, felt his foundations crash to the ground. And the silver lengthened, turned into a light grey that blended with the crimson surrounding it. 

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I walk into the bar, late by maybe five minutes, and set my case down on the small stage floor, taking off my coat. The band members haven't started warming up yet-- they're just sitting around. I guess it was always that way with them. They're very laid back. Perhaps being a musician does that to you. Or maybe not. I suppose it all depends on your personality. 

"Where's the lady, Gren?" Jake, the pianist, drawls, as he kicks his feet up on the piano, not caring if the keys are hit. 

"She's out for a walk." I reply, as I hang up my coat on the rack near the stage. I can see everybody's eyes widen through the corner of my eyes. "Just for a little while."

"Hell, that's one brave lady." Neil whistled, thrumming a drumstick lightly against the cymbal. "Walkin' the streets at a time like this."

"She can take care of herself." Jake gestured at me. "You ought to know, you've been around her the longest."

"I wouldn't have let her out of my sight if I didn't know she weren't capable of managing." I manage a smile, and take out my saxophone. 

Jake plays a chord on the piano, and I adjust the reed to my saxophone accordingly and Neil taps his drums as well, listening for the vibrations. Syd, late yet again, walks in without a word and hums a note to himself as he tunes the bass up. 

"Caught up in unfinished business?" Jake elbows Syd in the ribs, and Syd raises an eyebrow.

"Wouldn't you know it."

Jake just laughs to himself, and as if on cue, we all start. 

The music drifts through the bar although no one seems to hear it. We're not playing at a formal concert-- we're merely here for the entertainment of the people. And sometimes I feel we're only that. Nobody quiets down to listen, they maintain the same volume of their drones, of their buzzing. And who knows what they're talking about. They all sound loud, and they all sound soft, the whispers and the voices mingling together to shape something into a blurry mezzo forte. 

I heard Julia outside before I saw her walk in. Her presence radiates off of her to me-- I can identify if it's her from a mile away. One facet of it maybe just be because she's the only woman in this place-- but there's something so unique about Julia, perhaps only to me. Maybe I'm the only one who think she's a remarkable woman. Half of the men turn to notice her, the other half display indifference. She walks past them all, and takes the corner barstool, sitting down, and signals the bar waiter for a drink. Just water, she says-- I watch her lips. No, I don't want the ice. It's too cold outside. 

I turn away from her and concentrate on the melody, the lilting notes produced by my saxophone as Syd thrums in the background. We're now all completely oblivious to the world around us, so absorbed in the music. Just this morning, before our afternoon break, I had handed out the music to them and they'd eyed it with interest. I had been composing it and I wanted them to play it-- they agreed. The melody wasn't hard to remember-- parts of it sounded the same, even though it was all very different. It had the same _feeling _running through it-- perhaps that's what it was trying to convey. They had all wondered how I'd thought up of it. _I _didn't think of it, I'd said. It was just a variation of something I'd heard. 

We usually improvise various songs, pieces we hear. Jake is usually the one doing the composing, since he knows the musical chords so well. 

My eyes are closed, and I open them, the world a bleary thing slowly coming into focus. Out of the corner of my eye, Julia watches me intently, because she knows what I'm playing.

She had told me the name of the song once she saw the music box, even though she hadn't revealed anything about the person behind it. I could wonder, I could guess, and yet I knew how the song had gotten it's name. This was the very same music that had sang me to sleep, sang the sun to sleep, as I had walked the dusty grounds with no purpose, with some purpose, back such a long time ago. 

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Goodnight, Julia.

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* * * 

[ Subject: Grencias Mars Elijah Guo Eckener

Doctor: Wessyn, A. Jericho, M.D. 

Summarization File: Metis 2 ]

Subject in decent condition. Ready for examination. Asked for his personal belongings two days ago. They were refused to him; no reaction. 

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* * * 

"Who started the war?"

"There wasn't really anybody who started the war. It was a territorial dispute. The Jovian Alliance claimed they had the rights to that moon. Of course, since it was a totally different government, a totally different planet, there would be a conflict. There had been valuable resources found there. Of course everybody wanted a piece."

"Where was the war located?" 

"On Titan. One of the seventeen moons of Saturn." 

"What was it like?"

"The war? I can't say I remember anything important. But the recruits were hastily called in from everywhere-- the propaganda, the hype... I don't think anyone could have refused to go. Nothing had been happening much-- so everybody left to join the war. And once they were there-- it wasn't any different, really. The conditions were horrible the first few days you went, but it was endurable. They were in a rush to get people together-- they only taught us the basics of firing a gun and strategy, threw us a uniform and then left our lives up to us. We could do whatever we pleased when we weren't on the battleground. We weren't trained or disciplined. It was like rounding up a herd of wild animals to work on a settlement."

"How did you assimilate?"

"The first day I arrived at the headquarters for inspection and medical approval-- I passed, but they weren't looking. They really didn't care. And after the first day, we were sent to different divisions and left to fend for ourselves. I don't think any of us knew what we were doing, although many of us pretended we did. The commanders came to pick us up and take us to the camps-- and life was a blur after that. We got up, we ate, we wandered out, we shot at the enemy, and retreated. Then it was the same thing again."

"Why did you join?"

"I joined for the same reason everybody else did. I didn't want to do anything else. I had no ambition. My mother and father were against my leaving-- of course they would be. They didn't want me to become a mercenary, fighting for some cause I didn't even believe in. It was an empty movement. When you first join a war, you think there are so many _benefits _for you. You think there's so much you can gain from it-- experience being a high point. But there really is no experience if you cower behind the front lines. You _think _you've seen something, but it's all an illusion. The war was fought for something, nothing was achieved. Many people walk away feeling that they've contributed to something. 

"You do it to feel something for yourself. I joined the war, perhaps, because I didn't know what else to do with myself. I wanted to _feel_ something, familiarize myself with something other than what I already knew. And maybe I _did _acquire something. But I can't place it now. The feeling is something I remember. 

"But there was nothing in that war I could live for. I think of it now, and I think that I could have died, and my life wouldn't have made a difference."

"Ah, but do _you_ believe that?" 

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* * * 

I could hear movement coming back from the camp, I could feel the rumble beneath me, as the men moved about, their boots hitting the ground heavily, they didn't bother to step lightly.

At least it wasn't me they were stepping on.

My eyes cracked open to the faint light of the sun, the dust still caked in my hair, my face stiffened with dried blood. I tried to move my mouth and I felt myself shake loose an old wound and the blood came spilling down my lower lip. I didn't bother with it-- merely swiped it away with my tongue, feeling the slightly salty, metallic taste before standing up and straightening myself. Miraculously, somehow, I managed to walk on my two legs for ten paces before dropping to my knees again. My breath came in short puffs, my hands clenched the ground, grinding the dirt below me and I struggled to stand up again, hearing the sounds of the people from camp growing louder and louder. If I didn't get back soon they'd come get me.

It wasn't very hard to sneak into my barrack. It was mostly deserted, since most of the people in my barrack had volunteered to be the first to head out away from the headquarters. My barrack was also one of the more that were located on the edge of the camp-- I didn't have to walk very far. The beds-- or cots, rather, were all lined up beside the wall, and each one of them looked the same. I remembered that I was the far one off in the right corner, the second one over by the door. It hadn't been slept in, as usual. I never slept in my bed. After the day was over, I couldn't get to it fast enough before I was dragged away. It wasn't as if it mattered, though. Somehow, I made it back today. Let them come get me. I don't care.

I landed face first on my the small bed, feeling the coarse cloth rub against my raw nose, and I felt myself recoil. The sheets smelled clean, although I knew they were not, The pain started to come back again, and I tried to push it out-- no, I didn't want it, I wanted oblivion, let me sleep in eternity, leave me alone. But the red demons laughed at me, made me feel the pain. And I felt the entire world around me laughing, for their own absurd reasons, at me, and not at me, and they were all immersed in their own worlds. I could not be a part of it, because I didn't know it-- didn't understand it. Who were these people, what were these things, that plagued me mercilessly? Why couldn't I be strong, stand up to them?

It was crazy of me to think that I had ran away from my life to join this for my own benefit. What could I gain? What had I gained so far? 

I cried because of this frustration. Tears stupidly rolled down my cheeks but I didn't make a sound, I kept the animal noises to myself, and watched, as the droplets fell onto the pillow, and the cloth absorbed it greedily, like a desert wanderer thirsting after water. 

I lay there, wallowing, indulging in the self-pity, knowing there was no way out of it but yet there could be.

I made the world spin for me so I could fall asleep again, and I pretended to _not _want to fall asleep, pretended to fight the fatigue. The very image of me, lying there on the bed, head turned sideways with a blank marble look on my face, would have been disgusting to those who would see it. But nobody was within my range of sight, nobody was _there, _in my world. So nobody could have known. I laughed to myself. If I could hide all day, just like this, that would be fine. I couldn't do anything, I wouldn't be hurt, and the consequence for the world wasn't going to change. So why was I even here?

Something jolted through me, something unfamiliar. I thought I saw something flash before my eyes, but there was nothing in front of me. My senses were in a blur, and I strained to feel it.

There it was again.

Unsteadily, not because of my weakness, I raised myself up on my elbow, lifting my head, the imaginary tears gone from my face and from my mind. At the far corner on the other side of the barracks, a man sat with his back turned towards me, his hand supporting the weight of a small music box, and even at my distance I thought I could see the gears spinning, the handle unwinding, and I heard the lilting melody as the sound pieced the air, through the fog of hoarse voices, mocking shouts. It was like something I could touch-- almost tangible, and I felt myself reach out, into the air, as if to grasp the sound. The music flowed through my hands like water, and the corners of my mouth lifted slightly, because this was new, this wasn't usual, this wasn't what the _war _was. 

And then the melody halted, the notes fading away, the water turning into dust in my hand, like the dust on the ground outside, as it was lifted away and spread out to disappear like the wind had taken it.

The man turned slightly, almost facing me, almost not, and then he stood up, depositing the music box in his pocket. His hair was a light grey, bordering on white, yet physically, he was not old. His eyes seemed to have been locked onto mine, sharp, unrelenting, and it was almost like he was issuing me a challenge as we stared at each other, from opposite ends of the barrack.

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Silver. My mind whispered to me. _Silver. _

The distance between us seemed impossibly long, and then he turned around, and I watched him move out the door, feeling his footsteps on the ground, feeling how light they were, how he treaded like a cat, even though something in his eyes, within himself, looked out at me, violent, desperate.

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Stop.

My hands clenched at the sheets urgently, I felt myself lurch forward. 

__

Come back, wind the handle.

I was thrown back against my bed again, by some invisible force-- maybe I had fallen back myself. My hands clasped nothing, reached for nothing, as they hung by my sides uselessly, wanting to feel that tangible, concrete music that had, for such a short time, anchored me to the ground, made me real. 

The ceiling seemed to stretch on forever, endless, the pain from yesterday throbbed as a memory, and I held onto it because I didn't know what else I could hang onto. I held onto everything nobody believed in like a dead man who hangs onto the illusion of life because he doesn't know what death is. 

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End file.
